Artistic Depression
by MySunnyDisposition
Summary: Her name is Peach, or so she says. Her face is young, and it bothers him, how little he cares about that. If anything, he's partial to it, and that's worrisome when he thinks about it, so he doesn't.


**So, this is kinda dark, and like a lot of my fics, I have no clue where this came from. Like, my chest was hurting from coughing up my lungs, and I was fighting a fever when this popped in my head. I'm finally well enough to write it down, but the inspiration is mainly just me being sleepy on my meds. Hope y'all enjoy nonetheless.**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own The Outsiders.**

 _~ Art never comes from happiness. ~_ _Chuck Palahniuk_ ** _  
_**

He doesn't need to visit a whore. If there's anything he would clear up if his secret came to light, it would be that important fact. He doesn't need to pay for his pleasure. He simply chooses to.

Most days, he likes rough sex. He enjoys being almost violent in bed. He likes the bruises he leaves and the confused anger girls feel towards him, because they always enjoy themselves, but he never makes it easy. He only makes sure they're willing, and word's gotten around enough that they know what they're getting into.

Then there are other days. On occasion, he likes boring, gentle sex. Trouble is, most girls he knows think gentleness equals commitment or something. The only kind of girl who would know better is one getting paid for her trouble, so he indulges his craving for closeness when he has the money and can track her down.

Her name is Peach, or so she says. Her face is young, and it bothers him, how little he cares about that. If anything, he's partial to it, and that's worrisome when he thinks about it, so he doesn't.

Peach is always taken off guard by how he's almost tender with her, but she doesn't question it. Most customers only go to her when they want to get dirty in ways they can't with their girlfriends or wives. She doesn't like it when that's the case, so she never comments on his mildness when he pays for her time.

She never comments on anything really. She's quiet, even in the throes of their activities. He kinda likes that about her. His life is wild, the wheels in his head are always turning, and sometimes he just needs a reset.

"Tim?" she greets him uncertainly, and not for the first time, he wonders if she needs glasses. She squints a lot. Could be she's near sighted.

"Hey, kid," he says, looking her up and down. She doesn't have a coat, only a thin sweater, and even that's unbuttoned. Gotta show the goods.

She gives a little smile, a timid expression, trying to gauge his mood. He's never been harsh with her, but it's better to safe rather than sorry. He gets it, but he doesn't smile back at her. It wouldn't look right on his face, and it would come off as scary, not reassuring.

He lights a cancer stick and asks her if she wants one. She reaches through the window to take it and relaxes, assuming he wouldn't offer if he was upset and looking to hurt someone convenient. He smirks at her childish reasoning, thinking of the Trojans and their infamous horse. Or was it the Greeks who used it against the Trojans? He can't remember, and it doesn't matter anyway.

"Motel's full up," she informs him, leaning over through the passenger window, hand against the top of the car.

She doesn't need to mention how that means she won't have a place to sleep for the night. He shrugs.

"Well, as you can see, my car is running again," he says, exhaling the smoke he just sucked in. "Mind a trip to the lake?"

"Sounds good to me." Her smile is sweeter this time, and he throws an arm over her shoulders when she climbs in. She presses into him a bit, seeking his warmth. He finds it funny he has any warmth to offer at all, being the cold bastard he is.

"Good. Let's go."

Having her the way he does, he marvels about her softness. Everything about her is soft, her skin, her hair, her eyelashes against his cheek when their faces are close enough. She has long eyelashes

Her arms are his favorite part of her. When she holds him, he feels calm, like the past few years of his life never happened. He imagines it's what having a good woman feels like, because she has the potential to be a good woman. She's just young and lost, and he doesn't care enough to help her instead of use her.

Maybe he does care, though, in his own way. It's not love, not even close. He was born without the capacity for love, feeling only loyalty to his siblings, reluctant pity for his mother, and grudging respect for a few guys on his side of town. What he feels for Peach is different. It's more like… fondness.

He's fond of her, of her tainted sort of innocence. Must be why he lets her catch a few minutes of sleep in his passenger seat with his leather jacket thrown haphazardly over her too-thin body. She needs to eat more. It's no wonder she's shivering like a wet cat.

"Time to go, kid," he says, shaking her awake.

She protests with a whimper, making her seem younger than ever, and he tries to guess her age. Fifteen, maybe? Tops.

She yawns at sits up. "Thanks for the shut eye."

He shrugs. "Just be glad I wasn't busy tonight."

She smiles sleepily and nods. "I am. Thanks again."

She shouldn't be thanking him. He's just fucked her, a kid who has no business getting fucked by anyone, a girl younger than his sister. Still, messed up as it is, he's probably one of the nicest people in her life, so he accepts her thanks and gives her another cigarette.

"I hate these things," she muses as she lights up.

"Can't quit?" he grunts the question, not concerned one way or the other, but she hardly ever talks. He won't begrudge her some conversation.

"I can," she claims. "Most days I don't smoke at all. It's just something for keeping warm. That's all."

He hums his understanding. "You like booze?"

"Better than smokes."

He reaches over in the glove box, reaching for a bottle of something or other. The label is gone, just something he swiped from Buck's one time. He hands it over.

She swigs it, her face screwing up, looking all cute and shit. He's tempted to pull over and pay her for another hour, but he decides against it. She's tired, and he's already been too indulgent.

"You going anywhere specific?" he asks.

She shakes her head. "Naw, you can just drop me where you picked me up."

Her accent is more prominent with the alcohol in her system. He wonders where she's from, because it's different than an Oklahoma accent, and it doesn't sound like Texas. It's somewhere in the south, though.

"Candy says I can crash with her, if her 'friend' left by the time I get back, so you don't gotta worry."

 _'Wasn't gonna,'_ he thinks, but there's no need to be mean. She's not angling for favor or any such thing. She just wants to believe for a minute someone cares enough to worry about her. He can let her have that much.

"That's good, kid."

She smiles again.

When they get back to the motel, she tries to hand him his bottle of… whiskey? Bourbon? He really can't remember what the hell it is. In any case, he waves her away.

"Keep it. In case Candy's john didn't leave."

"Thanks," she says, voice wobbly, and he has a foolish notion to walk her to Candy's door, or at least make sure she finds it.

He doesn't. He simply watches her go on unsteady feet.

 _'Fucking lightweight,'_ he thinks with a touch of affection.

* * *

Candy says they only have an hour at most before they gotta split.

"George is sweet on me, but that only goes so far without incentive, ya know?"

Peach nods, shuddering at the thought of the sixty-plus old man who runs their usual place of business. George Keller is a nice guy, but he's nicer to girls who blow him for special treatment. Peach doesn't think it's worth it, as shallow as it might sound. It's not even that he's old. Hell, she's had older, but those were paying customers, offering cash, not extra hours in a hotel room she doesn't even like.

Candy curses as the wind picks up, howling against their window, making the glass shake. "It's so cold I might cave and bargain for some more time."

Peach should offer to do it. Candy did it last time, and it wouldn't be fair to make her take two turns in a row. But she can't make herself say the words, and Candy pouts.

"Feeling selfish tonight, Peachy?"

She feels her cheeks grow hot."Sorry…"

"Eh, don't be." Candy waves her off. "Star and Ginger might stop by. I'll put them up to it, if they do. They can pull their weight for once."

"Don't let Star hear you say that," Peach warns, thinking about their batshit friend.

Star is like a hippie, if hippies were wild and volatile.

"Yeah, well, she don't scare me."

 _'Liar,'_ Peach mentally accuses, stretching out on the bed. Star scares everyone, except maybe Ginger. Etta isn't too intimidated either, but she hasn't been around lately.

"Think Etta might come around?" Peach asks. Last she saw Etta, she was being cuffed.

"Still in jail," Candy sighs as she snuggles up next to her. "How're you so warm, even with how crappy the heater is?"

"Tim Shepard gave me a few swigs of something strong."

Technically not a lie, but Peach still feels bad for not sharing what's left over. It's just, if Peach was to confess she had a bottle of whiskey, it would be gone before morning. She likes making her resources last.

"Lucky," Candy mutters. "And not just about the booze. Tim Shepard. Damn, now there's a guy I wouldn't mind 'bargaining' with." She sits up. "How is he in bed anyway?"

Peach shrugs. He's alright, but she's not the best person to ask. She doesn't like sex much. It's a means to an end, but she doesn't mind so much with Tim. He makes it enjoyable sometimes, and he doesn't yank her hair or slap her or choke her or grip her too hard. He's careful with her, and that's a rare thing in her line of work.

"You can't just leave it at a shrug," Candy presses. "You're the only working girl he visits, ever, although why he needs one of us is beyond me. His brother, I can see, but him?"

If she was a bit stupider than she already is, Peach might feel warm and fuzzy inside at the thought of Tim only visiting her. As it stands, she's smarter than most people give her credit for. She knows better than to wonder too much about why he comes to see her.

"He just wants a good time, no strings," Peach says, knowing it to be true and still feeling like she's missing something.

"And is it a good time?" Candy inquires with a wicked gleam in her eye.

Peach rolls her eyes and wiggles away to the very edge of the bed. Candy jumps and plops closer to her.

"C'mon, Peachy, don't let me die of curiosity."

"Let's get some sleep. We have to leave soon."

Candy groans in frustration. "You're killing me here, kiddo." She pokes at Peach. "I'm gonna keep bugging you 'til you give me something, anything."

Peach sighs, knowing she won't be able to rest until Candy is satisfied. "Yes, it's a good time."

Candy squeals, and Peach shakes her head. It _is_ a good time, but not in the way Candy thinks. It's a good time because Tim always gives her something extra on top of the cash, like time to sleep, a smoke, the whiskey in her purse, the occasional bit of food from a meal he bought and didn't finish. So yeah, being with him is a good time, but it's also nerve-wracking, like watching a monster try to be human.

"Does he have any fetishes?" Candy asks, even more curious now.

Peach pulls a musty-smelling pillow over her head. "Ugh, I am not talking about this with you."

"He does!" Candy gasps, latching on like a pit bull. "You have to tell me."

"No."

"No, you're not gonna tell me, or no, he doesn't have a fetish?"

"Both."

Not entirely true, but only because Peach isn't sure if what comes to mind counts. Tim doesn't ever get kinky or weird. He just… well, he has this thing about kissing her arms, starting from the palm of her hand until he works his way up to her shoulder and then her neck. It's the most intimate thing she's ever experienced, and she's just not up for sharing that with anyone, not even her best friend.

A knock on the door startles the girls, cutting off Candy from asking another question. Candy hops off the bed and smooths her skirt.

"Relax, it's probably Ginger and Star."

"Might be George," Peach says with distaste.

Candy's eyes go vacant at the prospect, and she pats Peach's head. "If it is, I'll take care of it."

Peach frowns but sinks back on the bed. She's tired. So tired.

 **So, I have an idea of how to turn this into a chapter fic to explain some things, but for now I'm gonna leave it as a one-shot. At the moment, I don't have time for more than that.**


End file.
